Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  The day ended and Darroe had the upper hand. His client would probably have at least some of the charges dismissed and without being on parole, would probably only see a short stint in the hoosegow. Since Hartigan was out on bail in third-party custody of a family member I decided to loosely tail his coming and going to court.

  It was less than a month after Darroe began his court motions that the plea bargain came down. It was clear the prosecutors wanted to move on quickly. There would be at least one more court appearance for Hartigan. All parties would have to accept the terms of the agreement and the judge pronounce his blessing on the deal. The court date was set for the announcement but local reporters had little intention of waiting for the official rendition. Terms of the plea bargain were speedily broadcast. It was the talk of the town.

  Early in the morning I drove a two-and-a-half-hour stretch to Boise, Idaho. It was time to make contact with Archangel. I could have used a computer in Baker City but being removed a good distance seemed more sensible. I arrived at the library and logged into my email.

  Archangel,

  You will soon hear of a sex offender’s death in eastern Oregon. If you choose to cover this with an article, take into consideration the nature of the crimes he has committed in the past as well as the nature of his current crime.

  I will be in contact.

  Scythian

  I now had to make quick work of taking out the target. In someone’s book he was only guilty of committing a couple of misdemeanors. By Oregon’s standards I guess that was the way the law crumbled. The prosecutors might not have been able to match wits with Darroe, but none of that persuaded me to a different course of action. He might have acted out some sexual fantasy with the sheep but that wasn’t the sum total of his crimes; he was a convicted child rapist and he would be back for more.

  Back in Baker City the town was abuzz. It was the nastiest newsworthy thing to happen in a decade. People were discussing the case openly and few townsfolk were without an opinion.

  Willie B. rode with his cousin to a local grocery store. It was only a few minutes’ drive from their little farm on the south side of town. Traffic provided cover and concealment in most cities but out here you could see for a country mile, which coincidentally was about the distance I tailed from. You couldn’t miss the old canary-yellow International Scout in the Mom and Pop’s parking lot. Here was a challenge. A little corner store with a small lot and few cars. My only advantage as far as I could see was that Hartigan’s ride found the only handicapped sign to park in front of. I wondered what handicap the cousin had besides stupidity.

  I was parked only a few minutes when Hartigan emerged from the store. He was already in violation of the court orders. A stipulation of his release was to be in sight of his third-party custodian at all times. Seemingly, with the plea deal pending, he took on an air of laxity. He strolled to the yellow beater of a vehicle, briefly leaned in, then stood up and looked about. Hartigan walked to the outside corner of the store glancing back as he rounded the corner. He remained unaccompanied.

  I had kept my Glock ready to rock ‘n roll for the past few days of observation. Quickly I attached the moderator and jacked a round into the chamber. Stepping from the car I slipped the weapon under my lightweight windbreaker and proceeded to the back corner of the store. Hartigan appeared relaxed, standing in plain view, smoking a cigarette. The lot behind the store was an undeveloped parcel covered with mounds of dirt and trash strewn about. Rooftops could be seen of single-level homes in the distance but a six-foot wood fence separated the housing from the vacant lot. I walked toward Willie.

  He turned toward me, making direct eye contact, with a rude response full of expletives, he inquired of my purpose for following him.

  I wanted to respond but a horrid vision immobilized me. This visualization was more like a flashback that included a level of reality I had never experienced before. Pain penetrated my consciousness. I felt violated.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you dude!”

  Dressed like Clark Kent and impersonating a mental ward escapee, I suspect I wasn’t too intimidating but I had something that was.

  “What is your problem?” His voice now increased with intensity.

  I saw him rile, his chest puffed up as he aggressively flexed toward me. He flicked his cigarette in my direction, he was ready to rumble. My Glock presented like a well-oiled piece of machinery. It and I were becoming one. This little bantam rooster relaxed his stance like a deflated balloon. Willie, who liked to dominate little boys and small farm animals for his personal gratification had the shoe on the other foot now. I knew he got his jollies from pain—others’ pain—and I was made privy to it. I was about to find out if he enjoyed his own pain as much as I was going to.

  “Go on. Get out of here,” Hartigan said, taking a few steps backward. His voice now constrained. I recognized his behavior, I’d seen it before. It was fear and I liked it. Next would come crying big ol’ crocodile tears followed by begging for another chance but I didn’t have time for all that.

  Thuup! Thuup! Willie fell to the ground. I could see he was still alive and conscious. My shots had hit in the lower stomach area and ribcage. Did I need to get in some target practice? Nah, I don’t know what came over me but I wanted him to feel pain for a minute. I stepped closer and fired two more rounds into his chest.

  Willie now lay motionless. Any pain he felt was likely gone. I concealed my weapon, looked about, policed my brass and strolled to my Avenger.

  I really hated to go but certain necessities forced my hand to load my trailer and leave the campsite for my old stomping grounds on the Deschutes River. After a week on the Deschutes I made a run to Sherman County library to check email. I wasn’t necessarily surprised to see a message in my in-box from Archangel since I had put her on notice of what to watch for.

  Scythian,

  A sexual offender was murdered in Baker City, Oregon. What is it you want from me?

  Archangel

  She was apprehensive and maybe frightened, it was understandable. She saw the monster in me. Somehow I must win her trust so she might see me for who I was. Then again, who was I?

  In response I wrote,

  Archangel,

  I am not asking for involvement, just a fair representation if you cover the story. I’d like you to know the inside scoop of why I do what I do. I think you are a good candidate to understand my passion.

  More people will die. Guilty people; guilty of inhuman acts to those weaker, smaller, younger, and innocent. It is the natural law of humanity; those guilty of violent and sexual assaults will be punished severely. That is my part. You know more about my cause than any other person. All I ask is that you give your coverage of my work a fair and honest appraisal. If I am apprehended I would like you to have exclusive rights to my story

  Scythian

  After sending the email, I took the opportunity to check up on happenings with the Hartigan killing. Neighboring towns all carried a piece of the action. Even larger cities like Pendleton.

  A few things struck me after perusing the articles. No mention of someone of my description or persons of interest. Either they were being extremely guarded or they didn’t have a real lead. Reporters interviewed local townsfolk and all were quoted as being very negative about the Hartigan plea deal. Not one person condemned the killer. I was practically a hero to those folks and probably the livestock too.

  The plea deal was another waste of taxpayer money! Darroe said Hartigan had had counseling, which was part of the reason given for why he abused the sheep. Aha, counseling was to blame for that poor sheep being sexually assaulted! I think not! Hartigan had a wiring problem. The only cure was death. For Walter it was never about the sheep; it was always the little boy Willie raped.

  I read and reread the local townsfolk’s comments in the newspaper. They were inspiring in a morbid way. Through their comments I felt the impact of their anger. All the printed comments carried a central theme; we don�
�t want these kinds of people living in our midst. To Walter, they were all missing the real picture. Seemingly forgotten was Hartigan’s past. He was a predator who preyed on children. Had he had the opportunity with a child in the same way he did the sheep, another child would have been notched on his belt. The people of Baker City weren’t overcome with fear there was a killer on the loose, they practically welcomed him into their midst.

  I had the distinct impression from the locals that they suspected the killer was one of their own. A neighbor, perhaps even someone they knew personally. The comments clearly indicated they believed this murder to be an isolated incident. What about the sheriff’s department’s investigation? I hesitated to say they were joking, but the sheriff put the number of suspects in the case at around six thousand people. Was it a nice round figure or a figurative guess that just happened to correspond to the resident population of Baker City?

  Sasins ran a feature article on the Hartigan case. After interviewing Darroe she drew her conclusions. Darroe was not presented in a positive light. He was livid about the killing of his client. He insisted it was a local vigilante who was incensed by the nature of the crime. Playing devil’s advocate, Sasins alluded to the killing having as much to do with his theft and sexual abuse of the animal as it did with his previous child rape offense. “Fate has a way of rolling forward to finally catch those who continue to violate the natural laws of a society” she said. I had to consider that statement applicable to me as well.

  Some weeks passed and the local news died off. Checking email, Sasins sent me a message.

  Scythian,

  Are you aware of a task force assembled to investigate vigilante activity against paroled felons? Forensic evidence indicates two or more murders being investigated are linked.

  I would like to talk sometime, call me on my cell phone. You’ll find the number in my electronic signature block.

  Archangel

  This was positive. Sasins was evidently willing to stay in contact. Further, she was probing by putting information out to evoke a response. I already had my suspicions about some sort of task force. But, being good-natured as I am I was willing to help Detective Ware by adding more statistics for his team to work with. It was the least I could do.

  Chapter 12

  He was a lot like me; a façade that took on reality.

  —Walter

  I’ve never trusted lawyers. Why should I, it’s a dishonest trade. Law school is an oxymoron; on the one hand they teach constitutional law, on the other hand they teach how to manipulate those laws by misrepresenting, omitting, and out-and-out lying. We see it all the time. Skewing facts are forms of lying in Walter’s book. Their goals are winning at all costs, the truth be damned.

  Defendants with cash, have attorneys stacked up like a pro football team roster. When the courts declared everyone has a right to an attorney it provided a vehicle for unscrupulous lawyers to reach into the deep pockets of the taxpayer via government edict. They can file appeal after appeal after appeal. They will bleed the prosecutor’s budget dry.

  The answer, cut a deal. Plea deals, if accepted by all parties, come with a clause prohibiting appeal and carry a lesser sentence for the guilty. It’s a win-win. The victims don’t have to endure a trial. Without a trial there is less expense to the taxpayer and the prosecutors still score a victory. The criminal will serve less time, have a reduced fine, or whatever the deal. Defense attorneys consider it a win because they won a reduced sentence for their client. To me they’re all just hired guns driven by fame, greed, and self-interest. They are no better than politicians; everybody knows politicians are nothing but scoundrels and liars. Lawyers broker deals, coddle the wicked, and contaminate others. When a victim or a victim’s family enters the realm of the judicial system seeking justice, they are little better off than Dorothy was in the Wizard of Oz. Only, instead of, “lions, tigers, and bears” presenting danger at every bend in the road—it’s a trial lawyer. The tune repeated countless times in my thoughts, only the words to the song changed, “Liars, scoundrels, and thieves—oh my!” I couldn’t shake it.

  I was bothered more by Darroe’s recent shenanigans than those of the past. Bothered was probably a mild understatement. I concluded after my first encounter with Darroe and considerable research into a list of his clients, he needed to die for using his position to aid and abet countless numbers of sex offenders. He has repeated his performance so many times he delivers his courtroom sermons more like a Pentecostal preacher than a lawyer—it was his specialty. I’ve watched him perform in court and followed his career long enough to know Darroe was the epitome of scum-sucking attorneys.

  I was off to a little camping area northwest of Spokane, Washington. I had visited the Okanogan Range when I was much younger and enjoyed the cascading beauty of the steep mountains and lush green firs. It was a few hundred miles but I was well equipped with travel trailer and supplies. I could grow my goatee, sip some fine Irish whiskey, do a little trout fishing, and give Walter a well-deserved break.

  I arrived at my campsite, backed the trailer into an isolated spot near a stand of trees and pursued my objective—to relax and enjoy the out-of-doors. As I sat in one of the most scenic places I can remember, the haunting tune played over and over again, “Liars, scoundrels, and thieves—oh my!” These were not the same sensory perceptions I had become accustomed to, nor the same feelings that accompanied my previous projects, yet there were similarities inasmuch as they kept a steady stream of thoughts flooding my consciousness. Any semblances of a relaxing vacation were fleeting.

  As I sat secluded in the mountainous terrain I recalled watching a television show many, many years ago, with a high-profile defense attorney who had written a book on his courtroom successes. He was very proud of his exploits and demonstrated in his book an example of one of his maneuvers that had brought him fame. He described how he would go about getting a date-rapist off. With the victim on the stand he would ask “Did you tell him to stop?” She would reply “Yes.” He then asked her, “Did you tell him, Don’t” and she would answer in the affirmative. He repeated his question in essence asking her if she said, “Stop.” “Yes!” she retorted. Then with a tinge of theatrics on this attorney’s part, he picked up the pace, “Did you say, ‘Don’t,’ Did you say, ‘Stop,’ did you say it over and over so he heard you?” The victim gave a frustrated “Yes” to each statement. Then the boom was lowered in his rapid attack, “So you said, ‘Stop, Don’t, Stop, Don’t Stop Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop, Don’t Stop.’ ” The victim sat speechless at how he twisted the truth and spun doubt in the jurors mind as to what actually took place. The audience uproariously laughed, and I guess it would be funny if it weren’t true. The big-shot lawyer had no concern for the victim or truth, not even for defending his client, only for winning.

  Ruben Darroe was such a lawyer. I’d watched him defending his clients’ already bad names. Thankfully, there were no attendance sheets in court. In most cases I was just an unknown entity watching the proceedings from the sidelines. I’ve read several transcripts, all from his cases that were of special interest to me. A few of the cases dated back eight or ten years. It was clear, Darroe made a career out of mocking the judicial system and revictimizing the victims of violent and sexual crimes. Having watched his cocky walk and arrogant behavior, I knew it was more than ensuring his client was being treated justly—he had a mission to fulfill.

  Darroe wasn’t much to look at, his physical stature was unimpressive and I had difficulty guesstimating his age. He was in his midforties or early fifties, slender build, and John-Lennon-style wire-rim glasses stylish in the ‘70s. His slightly retreating hairline coupled with a tiny nub of a pony tail and graying beard gave the impression of a homeless hippie. His choice of clothing was similar to that of a street urchin, but in court he dressed up for the occasion. Levis, turtleneck T-shirt, sport jacket with multicolored preppie socks and well-worn sandals. I came to realize he was a lot like me; a faça
de that took on reality.

  I was sick of all the slimy defense lawyers who were giving their own sleazy occupation a bad name. It bothered me that law and truth were so easily separated from each other in a courtroom. I knew it wasn’t the responsibility of the defense to make sure the truth came out; that was the job of the prosecutors. It was the defense’s job to defend their client despite what might actually be true. I understood the adversarial role of prosecution and defense. What I had a hard time understanding was why the courts allowed ridiculous defenses, the badgering of witnesses and victims, and allowed defense attorneys to make false insinuations of exculpatory evidence and misconduct by authorities when they were baseless. It was a flawed system and devoid of common sense.

  Darroe was culpable in rapes, murders, and other violent crimes; at least that’s the way I saw it. I had no qualms with lawyers who challenged facts in a case, but that wasn’t Darroe’s style. His verbal assaults on a victim’s testimony were all too common. Throw in a dash of Hollywood theatrics, accusations of wrongdoing on the police’s or victim’s part, and change the meaning of a few terms; presto, the truth was manipulated. The trial would gain momentum with the intent to convince jurors there was a reasonable doubt on one or all of the charges. One jury member was all it would take and another criminal benefitted from his command courtroom performance. That made him responsible for their freedom to reoffend. And they did.

  What was puzzling to me in Darroe’s case was why? Why the fervency and passion to get sexual predators off the hook at all costs? What was in it for him? Was it personal? I wanted to know what his motivation was. Certainly not money—for the most part his clients were indigent, yet he ran an upscale law office. How was he able to finance his operation? He had defended high-profile sex cases in the past that had brought him notoriety. Maybe it had been a cash cow as well. Regardless, I held him responsible for crimes committed by offenders he got off the hook.